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Be near me when my light is low. |
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When the blood creeps and the nerves prick |
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And tongle, and the heart is sick, |
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And all the wheels of beeing slow. |
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Be near me when the sensous frame |
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Is racked with pangs that conquer trust, |
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And time a maniac, scattering dust, |
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And life, a fury, slinging flame. |
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Be near me when my faith is dry, |
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And men the flies of latter spring, |
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That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, |
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And weave their petty cells and die. |
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Be near me when I fade away, |
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To point the term of human strife. |
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And on the low dark verge of life |
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The twilight of eternal day. |
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(Alfred Lord Tennyson) |
